No hope or a vague hope?
“Just do it then. But keep the noise down.”
Clement turns to the side and lines his shoulder up against the edge of the door. A quick check to ensure we’re not being watched and he thrusts his entire body weight against the wood. The feeble lock never stood a chance against his bulk and the door springs open.
“Come on,” he orders, stepping across the threshold.
I take a nervous glance up and down the landing and follow him in. Once we’re in the hallway, Clement closes the door and fiddles with the now-crooked locking mechanism.
“Think it might be a bit fucked,” he mumbles. “But it sorta works.”
I suppose I should be grateful the door is still on its hinges and not lying in the middle of the hallway, such was the force Clement exerted upon it. Ideally, I’d rather we walk away without anyone knowing we’d been here, but a wonky lock seems a reasonable compromise.
“We’ll go room by room,” Clement whispers.
I nod and follow him through the first door on the left.
The kitchen offers little of interest until we open the fridge and find a carton of milk and a stack of ready meals. I check the best-before date on the milk.
“This must have been bought within the last day or so. It’s still in date for another three days.”
“Someone is obviously staying here then,” Clement acknowledges.
My money is still on Rosa. With a full-time job there would only be a limited amount of hours in the evenings and weekends to clear the flat, so it makes sense she’d need provisions.
We systematically check all the cupboards and drawers, finding nothing untoward, or any clues as to who intends to eat the ready meals.
With the kitchen searched, we turn our attention to the room opposite; a poky bathroom containing a dated avocado suite. There are three plastic bottles lined up on the edge of the bath: shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. Their presence proves nothing but Clement has the foresight to check the towel, hanging over a radiator next to the sink.
“Feels a bit damp.”
Further evidence somebody is using the flat but not who.
We return to the hallway and the two remaining rooms behind closed doors. Clement decides to investigate the room on the left and I follow him into the lounge. The furniture extends to a stained coffee table, a threadbare couch, a foldaway dining table with two chairs, and a sideboard with an old television on top. A few pictures are hung on the wall but the room appears to have been stripped of personal possessions.
“Not much to show for a life,” I comment.
“You ain’t seen my room,” Clement replies. “This is the bleedin’ Ritz compared to my hovel.”
“If we deal with Gabby, I’ll book you a suite at the Ritz.”
We inspect the sideboard but it’s been emptied. There is nothing else in the lounge worthy of our attention. With only one room left to inspect, we return to the hall and open the door to the bedroom.
The moment I step foot inside, a familiar smell greets me — patchouli.
“Can you smell that, Clement?”
“Perfume?”
“Yes, and if I’m not mistaken, the same perfume Gabby wears.”
The bedroom is even more sparsely furnished than the lounge. There’s an unmade double bed with a small table next to it, a chest of drawers, and what looks like a built-in wardrobe behind a pair of louvre doors. As I step closer, the patchouli scent intensifies.
I open one of the doors to find a dozen garments hanging on the rail. It only takes a second of searching to find a navy business suit and a sleeveless white blouse.
“These are her clothes.”
“You sure?”
“She wore this suit and blouse on…that night. I’m positive.”
I turn to face Clement. “I think we’ve found her hideout.”
A frantic ten minutes of searching ensues. We cover every corner of the room, even searching through the pockets of clothes in the wardrobe and under the mattress.
We find no clues to Gabby’s life beyond the flat.
“Now what?” I ask, exasperated.
“She’s obviously staying here so we just wait for her to come back.”
Part of me doesn’t fancy the idea of hanging around for what could be hours. However, a more significant part relishes the thought of Gabby walking in and finding us waiting. I can almost picture her face as I introduce her to Clement.
“Better makes ourselves comfortable then.”
We decide to hole out in the bedroom. Clement theorises that if we sit on the floor, a few feet left of the door, our position will be obscured when it’s opened. By the time Gabby steps into the room and our position is visible, we’ll be able to leap up and block her only exit.
The trap has been set. All we can do now is wait.
And wait some more.
We take turns in standing up and shuffling on the spot. Backs and buttocks ache, and the music from the neighbouring flat becomes a form of torture. Eventually the sun sets and the room becomes bathed in orange light from a streetlight outside the window. The lack of light isn’t the biggest issue, though.
“I wish I’d worn a thicker coat,” I complain.
“Bit parky ain’t it.”
I check my watch for the umpteenth time. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it had stopped, such is the painstaking crawl of the minute hand around the dial.
“Do you think she has a job?” I ask.
“Dunno. Why?”
“If she does, it’s nearly half five so she could be on her way home by now.”
“Let’s hope she ain’t a nurse. We could be waiting all night.”
“I don’t think she’s a nurse.”
We fall into a pattern of talking about nothing for a few minutes, followed by prolonged periods of silence. Despite the tedium and plunging temperature, Clement doesn’t complain. I get the impression he is used to waiting around and doing nothing.
“You don’t have to tell me, but have you ever been in prison, Clement?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I just assumed it was an occupational hazard in your line of work.”
“And it ain’t in yours?”
“Fair point.”
“But since you ask, no I ain’t.”
“Right, it’s just you seem content with all this waiting around and doing nothing. Personally, I’m losing the will to live.”
“Yeah, well, where I come from, doing nothing is about all there is to do.”
“I thought you were from London.”
“I am. Just not…forget it.”
“Come on, Clement” I plead. “I’m genuinely interested.”
“Nah, leave it, Bill. Last person I told thought I was insane. Tried setting me up with a shrink, so I ain’t gonna make that mistake again.”
“Why would somebody consider you insane?”
He turns to face me. If he didn’t look sinister enough in daylight, the orange light casts an eerie shadow across his features, making him look almost demonic.
“Drop it.”
I oblige without question.
Another hour passes, as does my theory that Gabby might return now the working day is over. It is now so cold I can see my own breath, and coupled with the oppressive darkness, despondency quickly descends.
“How much longer should we give it?”
“What’s the time now?”
“Nearly seven.”
“Couple more hours.”
A punch in the face would have been more welcome than his answer. I let out a long sigh and get to my feet.
“If we’re going to be stuck here for another two hours, we need to keep warm. I can’t feel my fingers.”
I traipse over to the bed and grab the duvet. It feels damp to the touch, although it could just be the cold. I drag it over to the wall and sit down, a foot away from Clement.
“Do you want to share this?”
&n
bsp; “Not really,” he replies. “But seeing as my knackers feel like frozen spuds, I suppose I’m gonna have to.”
He takes one edge of the duvet and pulls it across him. I do the same with the other end, pulling it tight to my chest.
And there we sit, in the dark beneath a musty duvet, like a couple married too long; wishing they were somewhere else. The only saving grace is that we’re no longer at risk from hypothermia.
Now all I have to contend with is boredom and hunger. For a second I contemplate heading into the kitchen and liberating one of the ready meals from the fridge, but it would be my luck for Gabby to return and spot the light from the microwave.
Seeing as there is no practical way to deal with my hunger, I turn my attention to the boredom.
“Can I ask you a question, Clement?”
“If it involves you snuggling up any closer, you can fuck right off.”
“No, I’m quite close enough, thank you. I was going to ask what your plans are?”
“Plans?”
“Yes, once this is all over. Are you intending to work at Fitzgerald’s for the foreseeable future?”
“Foreseeable future,” he snorts. “What a crock of shit that phrase is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Did you see this mess with your sister coming? Was it part of your foreseeable future?”
“Well, no, of course not. But some parts of our lives we can predict with a degree of certainty.”
He shakes his head. “There’s only one thing you can be certain of, Bill.”
“What’s that?”
“When the Grim Reaper comes calling, you’ll be on your own and all those plans will count for nothing.”
“Well, thank you, Clement,” I huff. “That’s cheered me up no end.”
“Wasn’t supposed to cheer you up. I’m just saying people would be better off if they just lived their lives with that in mind. Trying to predict what’s gonna happen next week, next month, or next year, is just bullshit.”
“And is that how you live your life? For the moment?”
“I did, a long time ago,” he says wistfully. “Now I just…exist.”
I’m wary of straying onto personal matters as Clement has shut me down on every previous attempt. But seeing as we’re stuck here with little else to do, I take a risk.
“You say exist, like you don’t have much of a life.”
“I don’t,” he sighs. “Not anymore.”
For a moment I almost forget where I am and why I’m here, such is my surprise at the vulnerability in his voice. I decide to push a little further.
“What’s so wrong with your life?”
As I wait for him to reply, I realise the music from the neighbouring flat has stopped. For the first time since we arrived, complete silence envelops the bedroom.
“Things ain’t the same,” he finally mumbles. “People, places, everything I knew — all gone.”
He exhales a deep breath and turns to face me. “We ain’t so different, Bill. And I know this better than anyone — you’re lonely cos’ you’re living the wrong life.”
I’m not sure how this has suddenly become about me, but I can’t argue with his insight.
“The wrong life?”
“Yeah. You’re no more a politician than I am.”
“Um, right.”
“And don’t think I’m being a bender or anything, but you’re not such a bad bloke. I saw what you did for that young girl, and I also saw the look on your face after.”
I decide to overlook his inappropriate language. “I didn’t realise I had a look on my face.”
“You did, and you need to think about being that bloke full time; not the dickhead in a suit who turns up for work every day just cos’ he thinks it’s what his old man wanted.”
Harshly put, but a reasonable point.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I concede. “But for now, it’s semantics.”
“It’s what?”
“If Gabby fails to turn up before we starve to death, I might not have much of a future to ponder over.”
On cue, the thumping music starts again, even louder than before.
“Fucking noise,” Clement grumbles.
“Indeed.”
We sit for what feels like a lifetime, but turns out to be ninety minutes. The only noise more unbearable than the music is that from our grumbling stomachs.
“Okay, that’s it, Clement,” I eventually announce. “I think we should call it a night. We can always come back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
With unbridled relief Clement is in agreement, we put the duvet back on the bed and check all the rooms are how we found them. We invest a couple of minutes ensuring the lock on the front door doesn’t show any obvious signs of forced entry, and leave.
As we retrace our steps through the estate, my thoughts turn to tomorrow.
“You can stay at my place tonight, if you like? We can make an early start in the morning and perhaps catch Gabby before she leaves the flat.”
“You got any booze in?”
“Plenty.”
“And food?”
“There’s an excellent Chinese takeaway near my flat.”
“Then I accept.”
Cold, tired, hungry, and dejected, we trudge back to the train station. By the time we arrive, I’ve concluded that today has been another groundhog day; another chance to derail Gabby’s plans, thwarted. It’s beginning to feel like the gods are conspiring against me. So, as I sit in a poorly heated waiting room at Hounslow train station, I resort to something I last tried thirty years ago, and I offer a silent prayer. With time and options running out, I have little else to try.
29.
A bowl of Singapore noodles and three shots of brandy finished me off. I retired to bed, so exhausted I didn’t hear Clement’s snoring, or flatulent backside as he slept on the sofa.
I open the curtains to the same black sky I said goodnight to. It’s just turned five thirty as I stare out of my bedroom window at the street below. Even at this early hour, people are out and about; some suffering the cold on foot and others cocooned in cars. We’ll be joining the frozen pedestrians within the hour.
I put the kettle on and grab a quick shower while it boils. If I’ve learnt anything about my snoozing friend, it’s to get in the bathroom before he contaminates it.
Keen to avoid another session beneath Gabby’s musty duvet, I dress in appropriately warm clothes and return to the kitchen to make tea. Presumably having heard the kettle, Clement appears, yawning in the doorway.
“You done in the bathroom?” he grunts.
“It’s all yours,” I reply, passing him a mug of tea.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly six.”
“We got time for breakfast?”
“We have, if you’re happy with toast or cereal.”
“Toast, ta. Four slices, buttered.”
I wasn’t actually offering to prepare his breakfast but it’s too early for a debate on the subject.
“I’ve gotta grab some fags. Where’s the nearest newsagents?”
“Turn left out of the door and there’s one just around the corner. Don’t be long.”
He takes a couple of sips of tea and places the mug on the side.
“I’ll be five minutes.”
I throw him my keys. “You’ll need those to get back in.”
He disappears, and five seconds later I hear the front door slam shut.
Our plan is to get to Hounslow before half seven which means leaving the flat within the next thirty minutes. We’ll be arriving a little more prepared this morning as I equipped Clement with a screwdriver and a handful of paperclips. He assured me he’d be able to pick the lock with those modest tools; preferable to yesterday’s assault on the door and necessary if we’re to catch Gabby by surprise.
However, if Gabby isn’t there, our plan is to hang around the flat until lunchtime, just in case she returns. If we
have no luck, our next option is to pay Miss Douglas a visit to see what she has to say about her guest. Beyond that, our plans are sketchy at best. Clement is still keen to tail Rosa in the hope she leads us to Gabby. I remain reluctant but if we have no luck with plan-A or plan-B, it might be the only option left on the table.
Thinking of Rosa, I send her a text to say I won’t be in again today as I’m still unwell. She’s still way ahead of me in the lying stakes so I feel no guilt.
I turn my attention to Clement’s breakfast order and slide four slices of bread into the toaster. With my anxiety levels already building, I can’t stomach much more than cereal and grab a box of muesli from the cupboard.
Seated at the kitchen table, I’m about to tuck into my bland breakfast when I hear the front door slam shut again. Heavy boots stomp across the tiled hallway floor before Clement bursts into the kitchen. I look up at him. His scowl does not bode well.
“You want the good news or the bad news?” he asks.
I’m not in the mood for games but indulge him. “Go on,” I sigh. “I could do with some good news.”
“Alright. The good news is I found a fiver on the way to the newsagents.”
“I’m thrilled for you. Shall we put up some bunting to celebrate?”
“Not yet. Here’s the bad news.”
He pulls a rolled-up newspaper from his back pocket and slaps it on the table.
“Front page,” he adds.
An immediate sense of foreboding destroys what little appetite I had. With hands that have suddenly developed a tremble, I unfurl the newspaper and lay it flat on the table.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp. “What the…?”
“That’s bad,” Clement blurts, pointing out the obvious. “But it gets worse.”
I look up at him, and then back at the headline dominating the front page of a national newspaper — Perverted MP in Incestuous Sex Tape Scandal.
“Worse? How the hell can this get any worse?” I yell.
“There’s already a dozen journalists waiting outside the building.”
I can’t find words. My mind collapses in on itself as if I’d just been told by a doctor I have a terminal illness. There is no way out, no solution, no plan left to enact. Three days ahead of her deadline, Gabrielle Davies, my own sister, has destroyed my life in the most abhorrent manner possible.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 23